


Each Christmas

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Savvy's Holiday Fic [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Christmas, Christmas Crackers, Christmas Fluff, Days 16 17 & 19, Family, Family Dinner, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Kat's Johnlock Xmas Challenge 2019, Leaving a Legacy, M/M, Mrs Hudson faces her mortality, Mrs Hudson is getting older but its not super sad I swear, New Relationship, Three Christmasses, carols, pre-teen to teen Rosie, proposal, tiny background Shycroft if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: With age taking its toll, Martha decides to pass along some of her baking skill to Rosie. While they bake, she reflects on her life and the legacy she wants to leave behind. The following Christmas Rosie encourages her dad and Sherlock to do something for Mrs Turner and the elders at the care centre. The Christmas after shows changes to the residents of 221B...with more changes still to come.
Relationships: John & Sherlock, John/Sherlock, Mycroft/Sholto, Rosie & Mrs Hudson
Series: Savvy's Holiday Fic [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558120
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58
Collections: Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019





	1. Last Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockWatson_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/gifts).



> I squidged three days worth of prompts into this, and made it a trio of Christmasses. Many thanks to Kat for putting this prompt list and challenge together!

At eleven, Rosie had gone through a recent growth spurt. She was nearly as tall as Martha, who had begun to diminish slightly as she neared her eighty-ninth birthday. The hand-appliqued holly bedecked pinny which Martha had loaned her fit quite well. Pushing up the sleeves of her jumper, Rosie smiled at her honourary auntie. “What are we making today?”

They’d been holding weekly lessons in Martha’s kitchen for the last several months, which Rosie was surprisingly excited about. She never seemed to feel any lack for not having a mum, yet she was always gratifyingly happy to spend time with Martha. Martha, for her part, had been pleased to pass on her family recipes and some of her skill and knowledge. In her more maudlin moments, she wondered what kind of legacy she would leave behind. Three failed marriages, no children, a past littered with mistakes and petty crimes.

Rosie, though, she gave Martha hope. Hope for the future--she was such a smart, bright, funny spark of a girl--but also that the past, Martha’s past, wouldn’t be entirely forgotten.

“Gingernuts,” she instructed, putting her rings on the little dish Rosie had made her in art class and washing her hands, “A double batch. Some for us, and some for me to take to the Care Centre.”

Marie Turner, bless her heart, had suffered a stroke some four years past, and had been unable to remain living in her home. She was settled in a very posh facility in the City, and Martha visited her twice a week at least. With the holidays fast approaching, she liked to bake extra treats to take with her. Some for Marie, but most were for the staff, and a few of the residents Martha had gotten to know.

Christmas music played low in the background, from Martha’s old radio propped on the kitchen windowsill among the busy lizzies and the pots of herbs. ‘Santa Baby’ came on and her lips quirked with hidden amusement. She’d once done a very risque dance to this very song, wearing naught but a flashy paste necklace and a white rabbit fur stole. The very performance of which had caught the eye of her first husband, who showered her in real diamonds and furs and treated her like a queen for three years, until he strayed. Her cutthroat lawyer had helped her make out like a bandit in the divorce, and four months later they’d married. Morris had been a love, her favourite husband by far, and they might have made a go of it if he hadn’t died of a massive heart attack.

As always when she thought of dear Morrie, Martha sent up one of her rare prayers for the repose of his soul and then pushed the memories aside. He was one brief, sweet period of her life that it still hurt to think of, sixty years later.

With the first batch of biscuits in the oven, they settled down to gossip over tea and milk. Rosie chatted happily away, and Martha leaned on one elbow and listened, loving this little girl so fiercely it hurt. There was an extremely generous inheritance lined up for her. The boys would do well for themselves, due to her will, but Rosie was getting the bulk of it. Mycroft had helped put her in touch with a very able solicitor and a financial advisor; there was a significant trust in place, as well as some more immediate funds to go her way. Martha had also earmarked her most treasured possessions to go to Rosie.

Her nephew, Bernard, a rather pompous and horrible boy--well, not boy, he must be in his sixties by now--protested that she was going to live for years still. Martha was no fool. She only had a handful of years left. If her health declined and she was in danger of being bedridden, she planned on taking a hefty dose of barbiturates and checking out on her own terms. Her solicitor had firm directives over pulling the plug if she became seriously hindered.

Martha had lived life on her own terms, and she planned on ending it on her terms as well.

When the first batch had cooled sufficiently, they enjoyed a few biscuits. “These are perfect,” Rosie enthused, biting into one of the soft, chewy treats. “Dad and I like them soft.” She gulped some milk, “Sherlock prefers them sort of crunchy. Gingernuts are his favourite!”

“I know, dear,” That was why she’d always made an extra large tin for them; half the batch softer and half crispier. Her boys deserved all the little kindnesses they could get. Life had been difficult for them both. Thinking of them, of the past seventeen years, Martha sighed unawares. She did wish they’d finally see their relationship for what it was and admit they loved one another. Really, it was all she wanted. Just to know her boys would be happy, together, once she was gone.

“Last batch going in!” Rosie sang out, turning around, “What’s next, Auntie?”

Martha suppressed a grunt as she pushed herself to her feet. As soon as Rosie had returned upstairs, she would have one of her soothers and lie down for a nap. “Alright, dear, fetch more butter and let’s get started on the chocolate dipped macaroons…”


	2. This Christmas

“Sherlock,” John said mildly, looking over the top of his reading glasses, “You’re going to eat all of those and spoil your dinner.”

“Who needs dinner when there are gingernuts?” Sherlock asked, ostentatiously eating another.

“Yeah, dad,” Rosie chimed in, sounding for all the world like a two year old, not a twelve year old. “Let’s just have biscuits for dinner!”

John snorted; it was a wonder anyone listened to him at all, the way those two ganged up on him. “Let me think about it,” he said, stirring fresh peas into the risotto. “Ehm-- _ no _ .” He shaved a bit of parmesan over the risotto and took the salad out of the refrigerator. “Rosie, love, please set the table--the food’s almost ready.”

Sherlock stood, snapping the lid on the tin of gingernuts and clearing the table of papers, files and Rosie’s schoolwork as she brought plates over. John dished up and they sat, chatting about their day as they ate. Rosie reminded him that she needed him to sign the permission slip for her to attend the choir field trip to sing carols at the children’s hospital. “I was thinking,” she remarked, licking vinaigrette from her fork, “We should go sing at the care centre where Mrs Turner lives.”

“Bit late in the year for the school to organize something like that,” John pointed out, watching fondly as Sherlock finished separating all of the peas from his risotto and lining them up around his dish.

_ “Nooo, _ dad,” Rosie groaned, as if he were too dim for words. “Not the  _ school.” _ Despite how sweet she was, the girl was still a pre-teen and she sometimes had so much sarcasm dripping from her that she could rival Sherlock at his most tart. “Us. We should go--we can ask Auntie Molly and Uncle Greg.”

“Mycroft too,” Sherlock said unexpectedly, pausing in demolishing his peas. He glanced up from under his greying fringe. “He loves to sing.”

“Really?” John asked in surprise. It earned him a twin look of disdain. No wonder strangers often mistook Rosie for Sherlock’s daughter. He laughed, “Alright then, carol singing it is, then. The whole family.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It was two days until Christmas, and John, Sherlock, Molly, Greg, the Stamfords, the Stamford’s adopted eight year old son, Mycroft, Rosie, and Greg’s half-grown teen daughters had gathered at the care centre. Mrs Hudson had come with them, well-wrapped against the cold. John worried about her. Rosie told him Auntie Martha was just fine, only slow. Sherlock, who seemed unable to face the fact that their landlady--their _ friend- _ -might not be with them for many more years, had told him not to be tiresome.

The staff and residents seemed delighted with their efforts, even though, aside from Sherlock, Mycroft, and Rosie, they were none of them particularly musical. They were enthusiastic though, and sang rousingly. Everyone except for Mycroft was wearing a festive holiday jumper, and even he had unbent enough to wear a dark green tweed suit and a green tie embroidered with holly berries.

Rosie and Mrs Hudson had provided a feast of biscuits and miniature mince pies, and Molly and Annie Stamford had organized baskets of small wrapped gifts. All in all it was very jolly.

John, standing next to Sherlock, sang manfully in his serviceable tenor, and tried to capture the moment in his memories. One day, when Mrs Hudson was gone, when Rosie was grown, he would remember this day, and how happy he was, surrounded by his family.

Sherlock seemed to divine his thoughts, as ever, and he let his fingers brush John’s. John, glancing up at him, saw a look of unguarded tenderness and reckless want swept him. Without stopping to second guess himself, he did what he’d wanted to do for so many years.

Winding their hands together, John rose up so he could bring his lips close to Sherlock’s ear. Under the cover of the other’s singing, he spoke softly, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” Pressing a gentle kiss to his best friend’s cheek, he squeezed his hand.

Open mouthed in wonder, Sherlock clung to his hand, pale eyes dazed. John looked at him, heart soft, “Alright?”

Sherlock licked his lips, eyes glowing, “More than, John.”


	3. Next Christmas

She was too frail to make it up the stairs these days, so they brought Christmas dinner downstairs to her. With Mrs Hudson directing them, Rosie took lead on cooking, delighting in making John and Sherlock her sous chefs.

The little-used dining table in the somewhat poky, dark dining room was beautifully set by Sherlock, using all of Mrs Hudson’s best china and silverware. He’d bullied Mycroft--who was attending dinner--into loaning their grandmother Vernet’s antique linen tablecloth and the napery, with its hand embroidered cardinals and Battenburg lace insertion. When the five of them sat to eat, tall red tapers cast light on the sparkling glasses full of the wine Mycroft had provided, and cast a gentle glow on the faces gathered there.

“Really, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked in amusement, when he saw the gaudy Christmas crackers waiting at each place setting. “What are we, children?”

“Rosie is,” John pointed out with mild annoyance.

“Daaaad, I’m thirteen. I’m not a child!”

John looked pained, “Just let me pretend for a bit longer that you aren’t practically at uni.”

Major Sholto, who had surprised them all by actually accepting John’s yearly invitation for once, sat gingerly next to Mycroft, giving him an uncertain smile. Although he no longer immured himself in his remote estate, he was still unused to social occasions. Clearly he found Mycroft a little bit of a wildcard. 

Mycroft, who could be beautifully behaved when he wasn’t twitting Sherlock, occupied the other man with a gentle flow of social talk, asking questions but not actually requiring an answer. So skilled was he at putting people at ease, that Sholto scarcely flinched when the first of the crackers popped open noisily. 

Rosie, pulling crackers with Mrs Hudson, insisted they all put on their silly paper hats. It was a mark of how fond he was of her that her uncle Mycroft actually complied. 

John, smiling under his paper crown, dug into his cracker. Sherlock, watching his boyfriend of one year, squeezed his hands together under the table. 

“What’s your riddle say, dad?”

John unfolded the paper, patting around for his reading glasses. Sherlock, hands betraying him with a fine tremor, pulled them from his shirt pocket and put them in John’s hand. “Ta, love,” John thanked him, smiling. “Let’s see…” He focused on the paper. A look of confusion swept over him, and Sherlock stopped breathing. John blinked at the paper in shock. “Sherlock…”

“What does it say?” Mrs Hudson asked, sipping her wine. Despite her age she’d managed to get her lipstick on with a steady hand, and her pink paper hat matched the big flowers on her favourite dress. “I hope mine is naughty!”

“Its…” John trailed off, still staring at the paper. Finally he looked up, into Sherlock’s eyes, looking shocked.  _ “Sherlock.” _

“John?” Sholto asked, leaning over the table, looking concerned. “Are you alright, old chap?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed, eyes wide. He alone had twigged to what was happening.

“Sherlock,” John said again, and tears were standing in his eyes.

Sherlock’s heart went into freefall. Oh god, he’d ruined this. It was stupid--stupid! Of course John wouldn’t want this--wouldn’t want to be asked this way!

John’s voice broke on a sob, _ “Yes.  _ Yes, Sherlock, I’ll marry you. Of course it’s yes!”

As gasps and cries of delight rose around the table, John fell into Sherlock’s arms, kissing him with the kind of desperate passion they normally reserved for the bedroom. Shaking with relief, Sherlock gathered him close and returned his kisses with equal fervor. When they finally parted they found their family celebrating, Mycroft and Sholto toasting one another, the happy couple and one another. Rosie clinging to Mrs Hudson, was transported with delight.

Sherlock met Mrs Hudson’s eyes, finding them swimming with tears. “Oh Sherlock,” she said tremulously, holding out her hands, “Oh my boys.” As he knelt by her chair to hug her gently, Sherlock felt the shock of how bloody fragile she felt. But her embrace was strong, even as her voice wavered. “I’m so happy for you, my darling boy.” She kissed him, and he allowed it--he was so high on love and relief that he would have allowed anyone anything at that moment. “You’ve made me so happy, Sherlock. I always knew you two belonged together. Right from the start.”

John came to crouch by them, taking her hands in his, smiling brilliantly, “So you did, Mrs Hudson. You were wiser than all of us. This was always meant to be.”

  
  



End file.
